


Never A Love So Sweet!

by maximum_overboner



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Darkfic, F/M, Horror, Obsessive Behavior, a little dash of dark comedy here and there, a very dark take on it, a very macabre character study, generally a very uncomfortable read, graphic depictions of injuries, lizardhat - Freeform, not a single person in this is well adjusted, onesided lizardhat, sadist flug, take heed of the warnings!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 12:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13811172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach! According to the glossy magazines Dementia reads, anyway. But she’ll do anything to win over Black Hat, even if it requires mastering the culinary arts!Anything!Anything at all!





	Never A Love So Sweet!

**Author's Note:**

> oh, i am a sucker for a darkfic! standard warnings apply, hope you enjoy it!

Dementia couldn’t quite comprehend the ceaseless horrors of the yawning, shrieking void, but she could certainly have sex with it and quite frankly that was all that mattered. She turned the page in her glossy magazine, the one that always told her she was too boring and fat or boring and skinny, or just flat out boring. She diligently read the romance sections every week, hoping it would provide some insight into her situation. Whilst ‘my crush doesn’t like me back’ is common predicament that can be understood by everyone, ‘I want my atrocity of a boss to fill me with his hate-goo’ was not. But still, she looked over the tips to attract ‘any man on the planet’. She rolled her eyes. She didn’t want any man, she wanted him.

‘Be blunt! Be forthcoming!’ She couldn’t be any blunter. Black Hat once asked her what the time was and she responded with ‘impregnate me’. ‘Look at him soulfully from under your lashes’, she did that as well and it ended with Black Hat in tears of laughter as one of her false eyelashes fell and landed in her drink, ruining it. She leaned in to purr sweet nothings into his ear as they passed one another but encountered problems when it turned out he did not, in fact, have ears and that any attempts at contact would cause him to explode and materialize feet away from her. But the true way to his heart, short of peeling open his chest and rummaging her hands around his insides as she dreamed of in her wildest sexual fantasies, was his stomach. It occurred to her as he told her of her victim for the day, a villain in considerable debt to the organization that needed to be brought around with a sympathetic ear and two cinderblocks to the kneecaps. He was picking at a bone absentmindedly, leftover from Flug’s dinner the day before. Chewing and breaking it between his teeth, telling her of her victim’s schedule, where he would be and when and why, none of which she paid attention to. She left, completed the job in record time and with a record number of casualties, returned and set the oven to preheat, pulling baking goods out of the cupboard and scrambling to find a decent recipe online before deciding to give it her all and make it up as she went. Baking was an art, right? Cooking was a science.

She blinked. No, she was right, Flug cooked the house meals and he was a scientist which meant that she could do whatever she wanted when baking and it would come out fabulous. Probably. That’s probably what that meant. Satisfied, she began. It was a cliché, but sometimes all a dish really needed was love. After assembly, mashing and a painstaking wait, she dragged her charred cake from the oven, slid it onto a plate, draped a towel over it for the drama of a reveal and marched up to Black Hat’s office. She knocked gently, then threw it open anyway. Black Hat looked at her, caught off guard as he reviewed some paperwork.

“What the hell are you doing here--”

He shook his head, remembering.

“Hold on a moment, you’re late. Did you do your job?”

Dementia sauntered over, wiggling her hips and dropping the plate on the counter with a loud clatter.

“What? Oh, yeah, right, I did that hours ago. I’ve been baking.”

“You report back to me after a mission. You know this. You can’t just flounce off to do what you want.”

“Too late,” she said, “ta-da!”

Black Hat looked at the plate. A charred, cracked lump. He considered it carefully.

“... One of Flug’s bioweapons?”

“No, you big, dumb, sexy idiot. It’s a cake.”

“It’s a bloody mess, is what it is.”

Dementia’s sunny adoration wavered in the face of his rejection and she found herself becoming upset.

“You haven’t had a slice yet! Maybe it tastes delicious. It was baked with love.”

“And what else, petrol and tar?”

Black Hat flickered his tongue over the cake, taking great care not to touch it.

“... Did you put garlic in this?”

“It’s an Italian cake.”

“I’m not eating this.”

“Why not?”

Black Hat was at a loss for words.

“Fucking look at it. Who would eat this? What moron would willingly put this in their mouth? Go throw it out. This might be the worst thing you've ever done, fuck me sideways.”

“... Are you offering?”

“It’s a figure of speech. Not that you would know. You’ve barely grasped vowels.”

She laughed heartily, elbowing him playfully over the desk.

“That was a good one. You know what relationships are like,” she gushed, “you can’t live with ‘em, you can’t live without ‘em!”

“Nothing would make me happy like living in a universe without you.”

Dementia gasped. She picked out the words she liked, which happened to be ‘you’, ‘make’, ‘me’ and ‘happy’, and decided to respond to that instead.

“Oh, Black Hat, you’re so--”

“It wasn’t a compliment, don’t take it as one.”

Another insult. Another chip to her wounded ego and their love. Every blow worse than the last.

“If you don’t pay attention to me,” she said, “I’ll go to the bathroom, take all the pills I can find and it will be your fault. Or maybe I’ll go get a rope, tie it around my neck and jump out of a window. All for you.”

“I hope you do,” he said, amusement creeping into his voice. “Do you need any advice? Tips? I would hate for you to fail.”

Dementia could screech. That always worked with boys she liked, they always gave in and let her love them, why wasn’t it working with him!

“It’s because I hate you,” Black Hat said.

Am I saying my thoughts out loud again?

“Yes.”

Fuck!

“What lunatic speaks in third person?”

_Shut up!_

      

* * *

 

Flug delighted in quiet moments. They were few and far between, but their elusiveness meant that he could better enjoy them. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He grasped his instruments, a delicate pair of tweezers in one hand, a magnifying glass in the other. One wrong move, one misstep, one crack in this precious, silent moment and his device would blow his skin off, then stab him, put his skin back on, then blow it to bits again. Steady, steady…

Flug blinked. A lovely, sweet silence invited noise, and Flug was sure Dementia could sense his happiness from within the mansion, even if she had been busy churning out baked goods of varying quality. He was playing with fire here. He always waited until she was asleep to work on his most dangerous products because she was as likely to eat them as she was to smash the colourful buttons, but she was very much awake. Raising an eyebrow he delicately put the device back in its box, put his instruments on his table and waited. Clasping his hands, coughing once.

There was a frantic banging at his door. Flug groaned. He walked over and opened it to find Dementia bobbing from one foot to another, clutching a paper towel around her bleeding finger.

“Come in,” he sighed, and she bounded in behind him. She sat in his chair, bobbing her leg as he gathered his equipment; iodine, catgut sutures, a needle, fresh gloves and a pair of pliers. “What happened?”

“Cut my finger chopping pecans.”

“You really have to be more careful. Is it deep?”

“I think so.”

“Let me see.”

Flug took the chair that wasn’t his. He removed his gloves, donned the new ones and gently prised open the wound, examining it.

“That _is_ deep. Stay still while I do this.”

He sterilized the area. The cut itself wasn’t long, but it was in an awkward location. He took her hand, grasped the pliers that held the needles and squinted. He pierced her skin, appreciating the comforting feeling of a needle through muscle.

“I can’t let you die of an infection,” Flug grumbled, his terrified sycophancy vanishing now that Black Hat was attending to his own business. “Black Hat wouldn’t let me--”

Dementia lit up. Her movement nearly burst the stitch.  

“Is it because he loves me?”

Flug sighed, well used to this conversation and sick of it.

“No.”

“What would he do to you if I died?”

There was that hilarious spike in fear Dementia loved! Flug winced as if struck and didn’t say anything because she knew full well what Black Hat would do to him if his muscle died. He hated dirtying his hands with jobs he was well beyond. Flug continued his work, quietly miserable. He was an only child but suspected that this was what living with a younger sister was like. All the bickering, pestering and many, many counts of murder. He closed the wound, dousing it with more disinfectant for good measure.

“Keep it dry for the first day. Come back in...”

Flug pondered, tapping his chin.

“Usually I would say a week, but for you… Come back tomorrow.”

“Will it get painful?”

“You’re not in pain already?”

“Not really. I only noticed when I looked down. It feels… Kinda shivery, but not painful, I guess.”

Flug blinked. Any adrenaline would have worn off by now, her finger should feel on fire.

“Your pain tolerance is abnormally high,” he noted. “I suppose that’s good, for an enforcer, even if I’m the one that gets stuck putting you back together.”

“If Black Hat wants someone killed,” she teased, “would you prefer to be the one fixing me up, or the one out there fighting thirty guys with a baseball bat?”

Flug shuddered. “Point made,” he said. “And thanks for not trashing my lab today.”

“Aww, it’s OK! I can do it later.”

“Oh… Good… What are you baking, anyway?”

“Pecan cake.”

“I should have expected that.”

“Yeah, I thought it would be cute,” she said, shrugging. “He didn’t like the first cake so I’ve been baking nonstop for a couple of days. I think I’m getting better.”

“Hm.”

“You want some?”

“... No.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re not getting any. They’re for him.”

“Right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important work to do.”

“I hear ya. Thanks for fixing up my finger.”

Flug waved her off, glad for the peace. Part of him wondered how far her miraculous resilience went. Given her propensity for accidents he was sure he would find out soon enough.

 

* * *

 

It turned out recipes had their uses! Who knew! Throwing random stuff into a bowl wasn’t working, but looking over a recipe book, or checking online, yielded positive results. Her test runs were complete. She was ready to make...

She squinted at the page. Sections were highlighted cleanly, other pages marked for reference. She stole this from Flug’s room the day before.

… Some kind of coffee cake? Black Hat loved coffee. Pitch black, way too strong. She took note of it. She sometimes offered to get him a cup, but he refused every time.

Butter to lube up the pan, some… Muscovado sugar? The brown sugar. Self-raising flour. A teaspoon of baking soda.

She stared at the page. In it was an immaculate looking cake. Wait, baking powder? Isn’t that baking soda? Aren’t they the same thing? Was a teaspoon the big spoon, or the little spoon? Answers fogged and drifted in her periphery, just out of reach, frustrating as always. She knew how to do this, she wasn’t stupid, but getting things to align was so tricky. She sighed, throwing what she had gathered into a bowl, mixing the wet with the dry and letting fate decide. As it baked she prepared the icing, sampling some.

It was...

She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

… Pretty good! She didn’t drink a lot of coffee, it didn’t satisfy her sweet tooth, but there was enough sugar in the icing to disguise the bitterness. To render its sharp edge palatable and sweet. She smiled gently. The timer rang out and she took the cake out of the oven, not bothering when the pan scalded her hands. She cut it into sections, the serrated knife sinking easily into the tissue of the cake and passing cleanly through the other side. She stepped back to survey it.

… It was lopsided. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Asymmetry was charming! Black Hat loved asymmetry. She slathered it in icing, sneaking a little for herself in the meantime, plated it up and marched to his office, head held high. She rapped out a little tune on his door and Black Hat let out a long, low groan.

“What do you want?”

“I’m back from the job you sent me on,” she lied. “Some stuff came up that we really need to talk about. I think the guy has contacts you need to know about.”

Silence. Then even, measured footsteps, clicking in sync with Dementia’s thrumming heartbeat. The door clicked open, Black Hat peering from the sliver. She presented the cake like a sacrifice on an altar.

“Ta-da!”

Black Hat eyed her wearily. He ducked away from the door, pinching his nose, then came back.

“I baked you a present,” she cooed. “Doesn’t it look good? When I’m done here I’m gonna eat the icing out of the bowl, I swear to God. I’m pretty good at this.”

“I’m not eating this,” he said.

Dementia’s face fell. “Why?”

“How do I know you haven’t put anything…”

He glanced to her groin, then to her hand.

“... Unsavoury in it? You can’t expect me to eat this, can you? Knowing what you’re like? I would be a fool.”

“But it’s,” she stuttered, “it’s good. I swear. I haven’t done anything this time. Please take it.”

“No,” he said. “You could have done anything to that cake.”

“You eat the things Flug makes,” she bit back, growing angry, “why not me?”

“Because that’s at dinner. I’m at the kitchen table. I can see what he’s doing the whole time, not that he would ever think to poison me, the spineless bastard.”

A light clicked on in Dementia’s head. It all became clear to her. She made one last attempt to convince him to eat her gift, but he shut the door in her face.

 

* * *

 

Flug wrote down the measurements on his clipboard. A new specimen. Male, underweight, mid-forties, naked and strapped to a table. He never liked the skinny ones, they were too fragile, but it all came down to who you could kidnap these days. He held the fabric tape measure between his fingers, bracing one end to the man’s foot and bringing it up to his hip. He made a note of the length. It made documenting changes easier.

“Stop crying,” Flug said, in his element. It didn’t help. Another gag may be in order. Anything but anaesthetic. Flug heard a rustling behind him. Dementia stood in the doorway no worse for wear despite the fact every security system was engaged.

“Hi,” she chirped. “I dropped a knife and caught it out of the air.”

She wiggled her wounded hand.

“Slashed my palm.”

Flug looked at the man strapped to the table, then Dementia. He looked at the primed alarms, then to Dementia, then to the man again. He cursed.

“Can’t you see I’m busy? I have products to test. My prototype is due next week and if I don’t invent a new form of torture Black Hat is going to--”

“And you can do that after you’re done patching me up! I mean, he’s not going anywhere, right? Look at him. You OK there, buddy? Cold in here, huh?”

The man wailed through his gag, thrashing and sobbing.

“Look at him,” Dementia said, “he loves it, he’s having fun, he can wait a while. Besides, some teensy-weensy stitches aren’t going to be hard for someone like you, right? Have I ever told you how much I respect you?”

“No, you haven’t, because you don’t. Don’t try to flatter me to get your way.”

“Yeah… Yeah, you’re right. You saw right through me. I guess that’s why they call you a genius,” she sighed.

Flug narrowed his eyes. He fetched his equipment. His voice was meek, hidden by the clattering of metal. He knew what she was doing, who wouldn’t, but he was so starved for validation that he tore into every scrap like a starving animal.

“... Do you really think I’m a genius?”

She smiled, patting him on the shoulder condescendingly. Flug wanted to cry, touched profoundly by even the most shallow compliment.

“You’re the smartest genius ever,” she said.

The man on the table screamed again. Flug and Dementia whipped around to face him at the same time.

 _“Quiet!”_  

Dementia found her seat again, peeling off a sodden paper towel and looking at the gash in her palm. Curious, she squeezed her hand, watching the muscles wiggle as she moved. Flug laid his equipment on the table, catching sight of what she was doing. He gripped her by the wrist.

“Don’t do that!”

She rolled her eyes.

“It’s not a big deal, it’s just a cut. It’ll heal up in no time.”

“Be that as it may,” Flug responded, “you shouldn’t do anything to exacerbate your injuries.”

“Whatever, mom.”

Flug took a deep breath. He could never get anything done on time in this fucking house, it was driving him mad. At least he could be the calm, sensible one, he would always have that. He turned to the man on the table, hoping the subject wouldn’t piss himself again.

“This is a very delicate procedure and I need to concentrate. Please be quiet or I will inject fire ants into your corneas.”

All hints of noise stopped. Finally, quiet, it was all he ever wanted. He disinfected, then sutured. This cut was awkward as well, wrapping around the fatty part of her thumb around to cross to her pinky. Easily fixed, however, Flug was exceptionally skilled and Dementia’s unnatural resilience meant this would heal quickly. He worked in silence, occasionally glancing up to look at her. Most people looked away as he pierced them with medical instruments, flinching or crying, yet she watched with rapt attention as her skin stretched and popped to accommodate the needle and thread. He hadn’t anaesthetized her yet she wasn’t flinching at all. He put it down to the gene therapy. Some lizards could self-mutilate, such as casting off their tails to appease predators, so a certain amount of hardiness made sense. He was so engrossed in his work that small talk came naturally.

“What makes you so, um…”

Flug struggled for a word.

“Devoted,” she said, watching the wound close slowly.

“Devoted,” he responded, taking the charitable option. “I’ve always wondered, but it seems like a sore spot.”

Flug looked at her oozing hand.

“... I didn’t mean the pun.”

She sighed dreamily, ignoring him. “Something about evil, y’know? We get all the stylish costumes, and the cool theme songs and the crimes, and Black Hat gets the best of all that stuff. He’s just so amazing. Sexy, too. I would do anything for him to go public with us.”

Flug blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, you two are…?”

“Oh yeah, totally! I mean, it’s lowkey right now, but I can tell that he really loves me, even if he doesn’t say it. It’s like… How do I explain this, he moves in a certain way, and he has certain shirts he likes and stuff. I think he’s sending me messages, but they’re hard to read sometimes. The way he drinks his coffee, or the way he closes the curtains. I just have to figure out what they mean!”

Flug looked at her, filled with pity. She carried on, assuming he felt awful regarding their secrecy and their inevitable hidden trysts. Flug resumed his needlework, his gut twisting in sympathy.

”But he can’t come out and say ‘hey everyone, I have a girlfriend’,” she continued, frantic, “because all the other villains would lose respect for him, or...”

She tapped her chin, not believing that one. Lots of villains were married, and as long as they weren’t lovey-dovey in public nobody cared.

“... It’s because he’s selling a fantasy,” she decided, believing that instead. “Like those pop stars. He doesn’t date publicly because it would ruin the fantasy for people watching, like they wouldn’t have a shot with him. They wouldn’t buy as much.”

“Dementia,” Flug said, “the concept of love repulses him.”

“I think that is just what he tells people,” she said resolutely. “Besides, if I get too upset, or threaten to quit, he acts really sweet to me. He smiles, or gives me a pat on the shoulder when I come back from an assignment.” She smiled, touching her shoulder, thinking to his freezing hand on her skin and the way it lingered. Flug remained unmoved.

“He doesn’t want you to leave because you do the jobs he doesn’t want to do.”

Dementia nearly wrenched her hand back.

“Ugh, you just don’t get it! You don’t admire him like I do, I was dumb for even trying to explain it. Besides, I’m his favourite.”

“I’m not going to rise to this. It’s childish. Anyway, I’m his favourite.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. If he fired me the business would collapse.”

“You’re just jealous because he gives me pats on the shoulder and loves me.”

“Am not!”

“You totally are!”

This was ridiculous. This was juvenile in the extreme. Flug was probably the smartest man alive. He could single-handedly revolutionize any field he put his mind to, mechanics, medicine, genetics. He deserved shoulder pats and to be told he was great.

The absurdity of his thoughts hit him. He gave up.

“Look,” he said diplomatically, tired from a long day and eager to use the fire ants, “can we both agree that he likes us more than 5.0.5?”

Dementia pondered this, squinting.

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Black Hat didn’t sleep. He never did. He walked into his office at eight in the morning, where he would have a single coffee, usually in darkness as he contemplated his day. At eight fifteen he would throw open his blinds. Then the preliminary paperwork that came with running a business. After that, another coffee. Then phone calls. A rotary phone, but he struggled with even that. He would curse to himself and bite his lip as he fumbled with technology. It was very cute. A routine call to an old business partner. He laughed on the phone, twice. Someone he respected. The next one was terse. He made a noise of disgust when he hung up on that one. Then came the meeting with Flug. They discussed prototypes. Something to do with fire ants. ‘Doll it up,’ Black Hat said. He offered Flug a coffee. Bile twisted in Dementia’s gut. It was hard to see them from her vantage point on the ceiling, but she persevered. Flug spoke. His voice higher as if appeasing a parent. He really was spineless. They reviewed their scripts. ‘Cut the fluff’, Black Hat said, ‘we don’t need half of this’. Flug said something in return. Lunch. Coffee. Veal scaloppine, barely cooked, with pasta. Mushrooms. Tomatoes. Very little garlic. He ate alone, looking out of the window at the city. Then rehearsal, ever the showman. He made faces in the mirror before he read aloud, to get it all out of his system. The only time he ever allowed himself to be charmless yet it made him more charming than ever. He flubbed a line and cursed, making an odd noise as the word fell to bits on his tongue and laughed when it finally did. Dementia couldn’t help but giggle along, nearly losing her grip. Reviewing orders. More calls. Watching him struggle to use a laptop for half an hour before he closed it, giving up entirely. A meeting with a client, who came dangerously close to looking upward as he gawked at the room. Selling, advice, selling, more advice, another coffee. Reading the newspaper. After that he left for a few minutes, presumably to use the bathroom, and Dementia took the time to sit in his chair and scamper back up to the ceiling before he walked back in. Reviewing finances. Sundown. He stood up, stretching, and walked out. As he opened the door Dementia slithered out invisibly behind him. He made his way to the kitchen and sat down, opening his newspaper. As he did he heard the clattering of bowls and pans.

He looked up.

Dementia was preparing something, her back to him. He made a noise of disgust then resumed reading, ignoring her entirely. He carried on reading, the clock ticking by, a sugary-sweet smell corroding his senses. He felt her staring at him. Her giggling grew louder, and a plate clattered in front of him.

A small chocolate cake. Even, moist and inviting. Dementia beamed on. Black Hat was satisfied that there had been no…

He shuddered. ‘Tampering.’ She presented him with a fork.

"Ta-da!"

“I’m not eating this,” he said.

Her smile fell. She looked devastated, days of planning and stalking, memorizing his schedule, undone in an instant.

“Why not? You saw me make the whole thing, I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I don’t like sweet foods. They make me gag.”

Dementia clutched her head, moments away from tearing her hair out in clumps. “Why didn’t you say anything, I can make you something you like!”

“You wouldn’t listen. I think you wanted me to like them because you have a sweet tooth a mile wide and it fits your demented fantasies.”

“You sat there and you watched me make the whole thing,” she repeated, desperate.

“I like tormenting you. You make it easy.”

Black Hat laughed. The prospect hadn’t even occurred to her. Overcome and desperate, she threw herself on him, clinging to his ribcage with all her strength. Breathing in his smell and planting kisses on the cold, firm skin of his neck. He smelled of strong aftershave, backed with raw meat, like smashing a bottle of cologne in the middle of an abattoir. Black Hat shoved her back and struck her, slapping her across the face. She fell to the ground with a thud, landing awkwardly. She nursed her cheek, braced to the floor.

“You-- You hit--”

Black Hat looked at her. He narrowed his eyes. She looked up at him, a handprint marring her skin, tears welling in her eyes.

“You touched me,” she whispered, rubbing her cheek, seeing if she could catch any of his smell. She breathed heavily, stumbling to her feet and walking towards him, ready to drape her arms over his shoulder. “Do it again.”

Black Hat, alarmed, shoved her back again, rising from his chair. She giggled, wiping her tears, her face a torrid mixture of emotions that didn’t fit together.

“I don’t love you,” he said, meaning it.

“Yes you do,” she said, meaning it more. “You do, you have to. I would give anything for us to be together. We need to be together, it’s good for us. Why are you being so shy? You aren’t supposed to be so shy. We need to be together.”

“You need to do what I tell you.”

“But I am,” she insisted, frustrated to the point of tears, “I’ve been doing what you wanted this whole time and you’re still treating me like this, it isn’t fair. Am I not enough for you? How can I become more to you?”

Black Hat went to hit her again but restrained himself. She didn’t deserve even that. He shoved her away and she stumbled back to him, like a shot dog.

“You’re labour,” he said with the utmost contempt. “A body. An experiment to be monitored. Meat. Nothing more.”

“Even that was for you,” she shouted, pointing at herself, at her head, “the experiments, the headaches, the splicing, the memory loss, this is all for you! Please, please, I’m begging you, why can’t you see me in the same way I see you? I’ve given up so much for you, I’ll do anything you want, I’ve-- I’ve killed for you, so many people, so, so many people, all for you!”

He refused her the dignity of even an argument. He left abruptly, paper under his arm, Dementia shouting his name the whole time. Why was he doing this to her? Wasn’t she struggling enough as it was? Why couldn’t he see it, even the evil had things they loved, they must. She braced her hands to the counter, screaming, and saw herself in it. And with it, the answer to her problem. They were going to be together, she was sure of it.

 

* * *

 

He was in his office again. It was where he always went after storming off. People needed space sometimes. To decompress and tackle things in a new light. She hoped she had given him enough time to do this but cakes required a lot of work, this one especially. She shambled to the door and knocked.

He opened it, eyeing her. He stepped back, opening the door fully. She held out the plate with one shaking hand.

Black Hat looked at her.

“... Thank you,” he said.

He took the plate from her hands, walked inside and closed the door, throwing her one last look as he did. Dementia wept with happiness, bracing her head to the door. She heard the sound of gnashing and sinking teeth and began to weep all over again.  

“I love you! I love you!”

The gnashing, the chewing, stopped.

“Go get Flug,” Black Hat said. “And hurry up.”

 

* * *

 

Flug heard a knock at his door. He threw his head back dramatically, sighed, stomped to the door and threw it open.

“Dementia, I can’t keep patching you up--”

Stood in front of him was a mass of bare flesh and exposed bone, muscles lopped and hacked at, glistening red chunks torn from her arms as if poorly butchered and huge wedges missing from her thighs. It took all her strength but she looked at Flug, loose flesh dangling from her body like wet yarn. In her hand was a large knife, best suited to cakes.

“I’m so happy to be with him,” she said, in excruciating pain.


End file.
